


Close

by CallMeElle



Series: Your Love Captured Me [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, In the same universe as Movement., POV Iris West, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: This kiss is filthy, a reincarnation of what they'd just done, with lips and tongue and teeth, enough that she’s already feeling it again, the sharp flutter of her sex throbbing. But it’s sweet too, slow and earnest, Barry’s hands cupping her cheeks and his eyes closed as he gives her everything.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Iris West
Series: Your Love Captured Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744417
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Close

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in the same universe as Movement, and features a moment from the beginning of that relationship.  
> The song featured is Close by Ella Mai and I suggest giving it a quick listen to understand the vibe of the fic.

_I don't know what's living in my body_

_'Cause I don't recognize a thing about it_

Iris hasn’t been out to a party like this in a while. On Saturdays, the city is bursting—brilliant lights, animated people, music that thrums inside the body like a heartbeat. It’s been weeks since she’s been able to partake, finals and papers keeping her locked inside her apartment. She’s glad to be able to breathe again, to take a moment to let loose before graduation and jobs become the focus.

And so, on this Saturday night, she finds herself tucked away from the glittering, raucous sounds of the city, and planted at a house party, the apartment only a door away from the chaos. 

It is dark when she walks in; she blinks a few times to adjust after closing the door behind her. She knows this place as well as she knows her own—she’s spent enough time here—but Linda has moved and rearranged until it's all a bit unrecognizable. Her overstuffed couch and chair have been pushed against the wall, creating a makeshift dance floor. The rug that once blanketed the floor is gone, as is the large screen television that once sat on a small 3 x 3 bookshelf. Instead, a pair of speakers sit there, blasting a song that makes Iris shake her shoulders a little bit, as well as a few coasters that Iris knows people will absolutely not use. Linda has strung up a few fairy lights along the top of the wall so it is not particularly bright, but there is enough light that it gives off a bit of a sophisticated vibe. Well, as sophisticated as a college party can be.

There are several couples dancing to the song that Iris doesn't know, the guys’ hands wrapped tight around their girls' waists; girls grinding against other girls against the wall; a guy and his beau smiling at each other near the middle of the dance floor. A pair of friends sit on the sofa, both nodding along to the music as they scroll through their phones. The small dining room off to the side holds more people as well as two large buckets she knows are filled with beer.

She eases through the crowd, heading towards the drinks. She's careful of where she steps, her short heeled ankle boots perfect for the inevitable beer spills on the floor. When she makes it out on the other side, she sees the hostess and her best friend, Linda, passing out drinks to her guests. The other young woman looks good, her dark hair falling to the middle of her back, her jeans so tight they might as well be painted on her, her cap sleeved crop top showing off her bare midriff.

They exchange short greetings—Iris had seen her just that morning—and Iris grabs a beer, settling in a near empty spot against the wall. It is the perfect spot to wait, close enough to her friend in case she needs a pep talk and near the drinks so that when he comes to grab a beer, she can see _him_.

_That don't even matter, I'm just glad I got into the party_

_So I can feel your music in my body_

She hasn't seen him in a couple weeks. Finals week had kept them all too busy to think in anything other than essays and tests, and that included spending time with the cute forensics student she's been seeing for a few weeks. She smiles, thinking about their first meeting, his own shy smile when he'd asked her if she needed help reaching a book in the library, his captivating eyes as they'd roamed over her frame. He'd been so adorable, tripping over his words, diverting his eyes when she looked at him head on, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously with fingers that'd look so long and graceful as he stood there.

She's not completely sure how she feels when he's around, but she knows that she likes it. At the very least, she can recognize that he makes her feel warm, safe, _wanted_ , and it's unlike anything she's ever before experienced. There’s more too—the way her eyes light up when she sees him, the way her palm starts to sweat when she reaches out to touch him, the way she fights to stay calm, cool, collected, when she’s sitting beneath his intense stud—but it’s all so convoluted, so twisted and tangled that all Iris knows for sure is that she wants to continue feeling this way.

It's only been two months: two months of coffee dates, of stolen minutes between studying in the library, of laughing at his science puns. It is all still new, but Iris knows that there is something already so consuming about it: about the way she thinks of him at moments of inconvenience, like when she’s studying or having lunch with Linda; about the way he defers to her, making sure she’s always comfortable, making sure she’s never where she doesn’t want to be; about the way caters to her, especially when his mouth tickles at her neck or his fingers slide into her when she’s wet and wanting him.

He is everything she’s never considered she wanted. He is unlike anyone she’s ever dated before. Maybe it’s the way he looks, just slightly rumpled compared to perfectly coiffed boys she usually goes for. Or maybe it’s how smart he is, about topics that make no sense to her compared to the business majors she finds herself going out with. Even Linda has made her confusion known, her impish giggles when she’d told Iris, “apparently you like them flustered and tongue-tied. Who knew lanky nerd was your thing?” 

She hadn’t. Doesn’t know that it is. Can’t explain anything other than it’s _him._ He’s who she’s been waiting for.

_'Cause you the only out of everybody_

_Who can deal with all my ways_

_I know I got some ways_

_But you control the flames_

_So I just wanna stay right here with you_

Iris thinks that she _feels_ it, when Barry Allen walks into the room. The music suddenly becomes just background noise, the oxygen practically leaves the room, her heart starts to beat a shallow, rhythmic tattoo in her chest. She sees him push his way past a few girls standing and vibing to the music, gaze flitting to and fro as he looks for her. He's tall—his lank covered in a pair of jeans that fits cleanly on his hips, a navy henley that shows off shoulders broader than she would have guessed—and it only takes him a moment to find her.

He brightens, so much that Iris can nearly see the blue green of his eyes in the muted light of the house, and his white grin takes over his face. She thinks only her brother has looked that happy to see her, maybe her dad too when she goes home to visit after too long. Never a romantic partner, though, never someone she’s known for mere months. It makes her want to hyperventilate a little, but honestly, she wants to lean into it more, because she _likes_ how he looks at her, likes that maybe it’s only her who gets that look.

Still, she is a bit anxious, as she waits, watching him come to her. His steps are measured, sure, a focus to his steps. The beer in her hand suddenly feels warmer than it did a second ago and she wonders, maybe not so faintly, if the off the shoulder eyelet lace top she’s wearing feels more constricting or if her black denim skirt is too long or too short. She places her beer on the table and clasps her hands together, her yellow painted fingernails digging lightly into the flesh of her palms, and she bites nervously at her bottom lip.

A tap on her shoulder momentarily distracts her and she turns her attention to her side. Linda is standing there, red lips curved into a sly smile, a beer in her hand.

“I can see you freaking out,” she says into her ear.

“I’m not,” Iris argues.

“You are,” Linda tells her, but the smile in her voice is obvious. “But you shouldn’t, because you look amazing and this boy is already obsessed with you.”

Linda hands her the beer, assuming it’s meant for Barry, and gives her a playful tap on the ass, pushing her towards her guy.

_It could be a room full of people, you still on my side_

_Look at how the whole world is searching, but I got mine_

_It's emotional, uncontrollable, all I think about is you_

When she turns back, he’s _right there,_ so close she almost falls into him. Her body floods with heat as he wraps an arm around her waist to keep her steady. She inhales sharply at the feel of his hard body pressing against hers, at the way his tongue swipes over his pink lips, at the faint moles marring his cheeks. She discovered early on that she liked the way he smelled, like laundry detergent and soap, and something else faintly woody, cedar or evergreen.

“Look at you,” she mumbles. “Always making sure I don’t fall.”

“I,” he starts, but he can’t seem to find any other words as his cheeks flush with heat.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she tells him. She places the full beer on the table. “I missed you.”

“Yeah?” He looks a little surprised, eyes widening, fingers clutching tightly at where he’s holding her.

Her smile softens. “Of course, pretty boy.”

The red in his cheeks deepen, blushing down to his neck, and she can’t help it when she runs a finger along the collar of his shirt, at the base of his throat where his moles make an intriguing appearance, fodder for her fingers. She always thinks about touching him, tracing his moles and where they lead down his hard belly, down to the thatch of curls below his waist.

She leads him backward, until they’re standing against the dining room wall. She wants to talk to him, wants to ask him questions about his day, his week. She wants to hear the sound of his voice as it rumbles low into her ear. She wants to just be, to bask in his existence, in his solidity. She wants to do both at the same time.

In this corner, away from where Linda has the speakers on the other side of the room, the music is more slight, loud enough that it can take over if they let it, low enough that she doesn’t have to scream to ask him anything.

“How’d finals go?” she wonders. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I don’t think I slept more than a couple hours a night. I probably look dead right now.”

His laugh is self-deprecating and he rubs the back of his neck before catching her eyes again.

“Nah,” she says. “You’re cute.”

“So are you,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing again. “I mean, you’re not cute...”

“I’m not cute?” she interrupts, a hint of a smile on her face.

“Yes!” He rushes to say, shaking his head, his neck rubbing a bit more vigorous. “I mean you’re more than cute. You’re pretty. Beautiful,” he adds and Iris resists the urge to tongue him down right there.

“And I really like your outfit,” he finishes.

“You do?”

He nods briskly. She looks down, past the sliver of her belly visible between her top and her skirt, down to the belt tied in a bow at her waist. The skirt molds to her hips, the slightly frayed hem hitting at the middle of her thighs. She likes the way she looks in it, and finds pleasure that Barry does too.

“I wore it for you, ya know.”

Barry makes a choking sound in the back of his throat and Iris can’t help it; she throws back her head and laughs, clutching at his arms to keep herself steady.

She knows that Linda is right, that she enjoys seeing the flustered look on his face, the wide-eyed expression that says he still doesn’t know how he got here. But it’s only because she feels that way too. It manifests itself differently, in pointed quips and light touches to the skin of his throat, where he seems more sensitive. It’s because she’s never been on this side before, never really cared what men thought of her, never became so excited in this way around a man, never quite so muddled.

She moves so that she can turn him against the wall instead, wrapping her fingers around his neck, her thumb trailing in light strokes down his Adam’s apple. She feels him swallow as he looks down at her, catching and holding her gaze. There are things she cannot name in the sea foam color of his eyes, emotions that are abstract and complex, and rooted too deeply in something that 22 year old Iris knows she cannot identify.

When he leans down to whisper to her, “I really missed you too, Iris,” his voice sounds like smooth whiskey on her skin, and his lips _just_ touch the shell of her ear; she decides right then that she might want forever with him.

Now, though, she’ll just settle for dancing.

_So if the tears wanna flood in my gates, let the water flow_

_Just let it fall out from my face_

_'Cause I never thought I'd ever hear me say_

_I just can't breathe without my baby_

_Ooh, you’re my baby_

There is something about dancing at a house party that makes it feel more intimate. They are so close, their bodies molded together. There are so many people packed into the small apartment that, even in their corner, they have to be close, have to redefine personal space.

She loves it though, being here with him like this. He is solid as he wraps himself around her, one hand pressed against her belly to keep her close, the other playing with the frayed edges of her skirt. She rocks to the sound of the beat; it’s mid-tempo but smooth, the easy play of instruments working together to create something sensual, something a little bit carnal.

She wonders if it is intentional, the way he touches her. Sometimes, she doesn’t think he realizes he does it, his fingers tipping along her wrists when they’re watching tv together. Other times, she’s so sure he means it, because how can it be an accident when it makes her heart beats faster and slower at the same time, when it makes her sex throb between her thighs. Her reactions to his touches are _visceral_ , open and real and something she cannot stop.

In either case, she finds she never wants him to stop. They dance through one song, and another, and then another one, her hips rocking against his pelvis. They dance until she feels like liquid, like a softening, melting mess. There’s only one thing she can think to do.

So she turns around to kiss him.

_So come and kiss up on me_

_As we dance close_

_Come and kiss up on me slow_

_As we dance close_

The kiss is slow, languid and easy. It is unlike their first kiss, where he’d been too nervous and it’d been too wet and neither of them had known where to put their hands.

This one is electrifying in its simplicity, the melding of lips and tongue. Of hands that roam, first at her cheeks and then down to her neck. He likes to play there, she’s learned. She didn’t know how ticklish she was there, not until he’d kissed her and used only the pads of his fingers to trace up and down her neck. It’d made her squirm, like it does now, her body writhing against him, her eyes fluttering closed against the sensation.

She touches him back, finger tracing along those pretty moles, and at his waist too, moving just along the band of his pants. He shivers under her ministrations; his belly clenches. Barry sucks her tongue into his mouth, bites gently at her lips, makes a long, low groaning sound in the back of his throat.

She feels full of him, when she’s kissing him. He’s in her mouth, his tongue and his taste, sweet like candy. He’s in her hands, the soft fabric of his shirt as she clutches at him, the hard planes of his stomach as she presses her hand there. He’s in her head, staggering and arresting and more open than she’s ever been.

_I don't even really care, I'm nosey_

_Just keep me there, keep me in the moment_

_Seen a lot of things, but I never seen my spirit glowing_

She pulls back from him. His face is red, his lips pink and swollen; his eyes are darker, almost gray in the faint light of the house. She keeps her hands on him, enjoying the feel of his hard body under her hands.

“Come with me to the bathroom,” she says, the words rushing out before she can stop them. 

It takes Barry a long time to get to where she’s trying to take him. He squints a little, head tilted. But then she takes his hand where it’s still sitting loosely at the small of her back, and then moves it to her ass. She punctuates her meaning by pressing him more firmly against the wall. She plants a soft kiss on his mouth, and when she pulls away, she sees that he understands, that maybe he feels it too: the warm, sultry feeling flooding through her, whirling and curling and moving through her in a rush.

It’s like fire, this feeling, intense and overwhelming and _hot,_ so much so that she thinks she sweats when he’s there, beads of perspiration dripping down in between her breasts, her lust pooling between her thighs.

But it’s cool too, liquid, pure, _refreshing,_ like diving into a pool when it’s hot outside, skating, gliding, _floating_ into ecstasy. 

Iris can picture them, like this, again and again. She knows that it’s early—they’ve only been seeing each other for weeks—but she can see them, like this, for years. She can imagine Barry kissing her, and touching her, and making her feel wanted for years and years again.

“Uh, um,” Barry stutters, diverting his eyes before bringing them back to hers.

Iris bites at her lip again. “You don’t want to?”

His eyes widen. “No! I mean yes.” He takes a deep breath, and flexes his hand against where it still rests on her ass. “Yes, I want to.”

Iris thinks her whole body smiles.

_The way you do me got me outta body_

_'Cause you the only out of everybody_

_Who gon' go out of the way to show me all the ways_

_Can't control the flame_

_I just wanna stay right here with you_

Iris leads him through the bodies, her hand clutching his. She knows that Linda's bathroom, an en suite, will be unoccupied by any of the party goers and it, suddenly, seems like the perfect place.

There are people who smile and wave at her as she passes them, and she smiles back in response, squeezing her hand tighter on Barry when they look to him and their clasped hand in question. She continues through the crowd, leading Barry down the short hallway, past Linda’s roommate’s door and the line to the roommate’s bathroom.

They slip through the door of Linda’s room, paying very little attention to the large bed sitting in the middle of the room, the pale pink and white printed comforter Iris helped her pick out illuminated by the soft pale glow of her bedside lamp. It leads them to Linda’s bathroom, small but nice and clean.

Iris flips the switch, turning on the light with the same softness as the bedroom lamp, but it still makes them blink. Iris closes the door softly behind them, and then, they are alone.

They can still hear the party, the faint sound of the music, the people still fighting to hear each other over the sound, someone yelling “hurry the hell up!” from down the hall. That doesn’t drown out the near nervous energy in the bathroom, though. 

She can hear his breathing, hear her own, the sound loud in the space. She turns to Barry as she moves to lean against the counter, on the side of the sink, and she finds him watching her. She finds that she likes that look, him standing there with his hands in his pockets and something hot in his eyes. Unlike everything else that comes along with her and Barry, this is a look, a _feeling_ , she knows. One she loves. It seems too arrogant, to say that he looks at her like she’s hung the moon, but he _does._ At least that’s what she feels like when he trails his eyes over the length of her body, slowly, reverently, desire and want and an emotion that looks too close to love mixing and whirring in the blue green depths. She responds every time, with a pattering heart, and quaking thighs, and her sex flooding with arousal.

She reaches out for Barry, and he comes to her, pressing her against the counter. He grabs her hands in his, holding them on either side of her, and he kisses her again. Their mouths move, slow and steady. He keeps holding on to her hands, and it makes the kiss seem deeper. She only has to focus on it, the kiss, and how soft his mouth is, how insistent and _demanding_ his kiss is compared to the open sweetness that Barry is in virtually any other circumstance. He’s asking her to give to him, to give him her mouth, and her hands, and her body. To give him even more: those parts of her at the surface, that smile and grin and throw innuendos at him until he’s red and stuttering; the ones that are even further rooted, insecurities and fears that make her wonder if all of this is too much, too soon. But she thinks his mouth says what he hasn’t verbalized yet, that he wants as much as he gives, and he’ll go as slowly as she needs to get there.

His tongue swipes gently across the seam of her lips and she opens for him, letting him in. He tastes like he always does, minty and a little bit sweet. He licks into her mouth and her eyes flutter closed, her back arching into the sensation. It brings them closer, brushes her hardening nipples against his chest, and she moans into him. His hands still holding her, he pulls away, but only so that he can press kisses into her jaw, light kisses that turn open mouthed as he trails down her neck, stopping at the sweet spot at the base of her throat. Her entire body shivers at the contact, and Iris writhes against where Barry is hard and solid, begging for god, she doesn’t know… _just him_.

“Barry,” she says, whispers, _moans,_ her head tilted back to give him more access to her.

He hums, and then lightens up, his tongue a soft pressure on her skin. And then he moves up, lips like sighs against the hollow of her throat. He pulls away only when he’s hovering over her mouth.

“Tell me what you want, Iris.”

_It could be a room full of people, you still on my side_

_Look at how the whole world is searching, but I got mine_

_It's emotional, uncontrollable, all I think about is you_

_So if the tears wanna flood in my gates, let the water flow_

His voice is low, a throaty rasp that makes Iris practically vibrate with need. She blinks up at him, wondering faintly what he sees in her eyes, if he can tell how turned on she is just by looking at her. Because he does that for her; with just a touch, just a wet kiss at her throat, just a darkening gaze in her direction, he makes her want to spread for him.

“I want you inside of me,” she tells him. “I want us naked, and I want you fucking me.”

Barry pauses, his body stills and she thinks that, for a moment, he holds his breath. And then he’s on her, his hands at the hem of her shirt. He brings it up, his long fingers ghosting across her skin as he pushes at the material. She raises her arms to help him get it off, and then he tosses it on the ground. She’s braless. Her breasts are full, her nipples firm, and Barry’s eyes bulge when he sees them.

“God, how are you this gorgeous,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch her again now that she’s bare. He presses a finger to her right breast, tracing the circle of her areola, the circles closing until he rubs the top of his finger across her nipple. He moves to the left breast. This happens for long moments, Barry playing with, caressing her breasts, first alternately, and then at the same time. They are not particularly sensitive, her breasts, but the feather-like touches are somehow branding in the cover of this bathroom, and Iris is suddenly aching for him.

“Barry,” she pleads, though she doesn’t know if she’s pleading for him to keep going or for him to move on. He decides for her, dropping his hands to her waist. He tugs at the belted bow, loosening it until the ties hang down, and then he unbuttons her skirt, tugging it down over her hips. He notes the black panties she’s wearing; they are plain cotton, but Barry's eyes flash like they’re lacy and see-through. 

It strengthens her resolve to get him inside of her, to feel him hard and solid inside of her, so she reaches for him before he can finger the top of her underwear, tugging at his own shirt to pull up over his head. She only takes a moment to admire his naked chest (his long torso, his firm belly, the dark moles blemishing his pale skin) and then she’s reaching for his pants. He takes over, toeing out of his shoes as he unbuttons his pants, pushing them down his hard thighs. Iris is busing doing the same thing, taking off her boots and her panties.

And then they are both wonderfully, gloriously naked.

And she doesn’t know who moves first, who touches who and where first, because all she knows is that the next moment, his soft skin is under her hands. She likes the contradictions, the smooth skin over his firm muscle. She touches him everywhere she can reach him, hoping to memorize all of the places that make him squirm and clench and groan under her ministrations.

She starts at his throat, because she knows that he likes when she touches him there, likes the way she traces along that sensitive part of him. She runs her fingers down the center of his chest, tracing nonsensical shapes into his skin, connecting the moles, drawing those same patterns again when she hears his breath catch. They go all the way down, dark spots across his belly, and Iris follows them until she meets the dark curls that lead to his sex, to where he is hard and thick and waiting for her.

All the while, he is touching her too, his nimble fingers running down her spine, rubbing up and down her sides in a place she didn't even know she liked like this. His fingers drift down her hips at the same time that she curls a hand around his sex, and Barry curses, muttering “ _fuck, Iris_ ,” as he grips her, bringing her closer by her hips.

She feels so stimulated, all of her in tune with all of him. It is as if all of her senses are overloaded: her eyes hazy and dark as she stares at him; her skin on fire, her entire body hot to touch; the clean smell of his cologne mixing with her own coconut and shea scent, and the heat coming off of their bodies; the sounds of their breathing mixing with the song that plays outside of this room, something slow and sultry and perfect for the atmosphere in this bathroom; the taste of him in her mouth again when he gives her another slow kiss.

What gets to Iris is that it isn’t just the physical pleasure he elicits. It’s everything that gets them here: the care in which he handles her body, how adamant he is to learn her—her body and her heart and the things that make up who she is to her core. Barry _sees_ her, in a way that makes Iris want to run away and fall into him at the same time, in a way that makes her want to cry—but only in pleasure, in ecstasy, in feverish delight because everything with him is so good. With _him_ , she feels so good.

_Just let it fall out, out from my face_

_I never thought I'd ever hear me say_

_I just can't breathe without my baby_

_Ooh, come here, baby_

Barry breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t step away from her, his breathing controlled in a way that tells Iris he’s as turned on as she is, that she’s not the only one feeling the warm, aching thing in the pit of her belly.

“Turn around,” he whispers against her mouth. She eyes him, noting the kiss swollen look of his mouth, the widened pupils of his eyes. He taps at her hip to punctuate his request, and she turns, her hip brushing against his dick as she does.

The picture they make in the mirror when she turns is _arousing._ Her full mouth is just as swollen as his, her shoulder length hair tousled, her brown eyes so dark they look black in this light. His fair skin looks flush with color next to the tawny brown of her own, and she finds that she likes this difference, especially when he presses his entire hand over her belly, his fingers spread wide.

He glides his hand down her stomach, over neatly trimmed hairs. He pats lightly at her sex, and Iris takes it as instruction to spread her legs. She watches him through the mirror and he continues down, covering as much as her as he can with the whole of his hand. She’d been so surprised, the first time they’d done this. His endearing hesitancy had morphed into something a lot more sure, confident, his fingers, his mouth, his sex bringing her to eath-shattering orgasm. Maybe it’s that too, this mix of light and passion that makes up Barry, his halting shyness mixed with a bold assuredness that would very well give her whiplash if she wasn’t receiving the best of both parts of him.

When he slides his middle finger along her slit, Iris bucks back into him, eyelids fluttering as she keeps watch. His attention is on her body, his free hand gripping her hip as his sex sits nestled against her ass. He runs his finger along her again, just the one finger, but she’s wet enough that she can hear it faintly, especially when he dips the finger into her.

“Hmmm,” she breathes out.

“You’re always so wet,” he murmurs, though it’s as if he’s talking to himself instead of her.

“Because I’m always thinking of you,” she says truthfully, voice soft.

He looks up at her in the mirror, eyes blazing, and he licks his lips slowly. “You’re going to kill me, Iris. And I’m going to love every minute of it.”

Iris’s pussy clenches around his finger, asking for him to fill her. And it seems to be what he needs, what he’s apparently been asking for this whole time. He pulls his finger out of her and reaches back down for his pants, and pulls out the gold foil wrapped condom. He sheathes himself quickly and then returns to her, pressing kisses at her back. He runs a hand down over her ass, rubbing against her from behind as he spreads her thighs, his sex in his other hand. She can’t see him, but she knows what it looks like, the rigid organ somehow elegant looking in the palm of his big hand, the veins prominent. Next time, she wants to taste him. She wants to take him into her mouth, to run her tongue over the mushroom head of his dick, over the tight skin along his shaft, milking him until he’s coming in her mouth. Now, though, she’ll settle for this. 

He rubs in her once more, the pads of his fingers playing in her slick, rubbing it over himself before he presses those same wet fingers at the base of her spine and bends her over. Holding on to the base of his sex, and catching her eyes in the mirror, he pushes into her slowly, Iris biting down on her lips as he fills her.

_So you can kiss up on me_

_As we dance close_

_Come and kiss up on me slow_

Iris thinks that one of her favorite parts of sex is this, when he first pushes into her, his hardness stretching her. She breathes out through her nose, her bottom lip still between her teeth, and he pushes in until he can’t anymore. He is still, letting her adjust to his invasion, letting her revel in how thick he feels inside of her. He caresses her hip, the action soothing, and it calms her, lessens the tension so that she relaxes and he slips in just a bit more. It’s when he lifts an eyebrow in question, and Iris nods. Then he begins to move.

He starts slow, pulling out until only the head remains, and then he pushes back into her until his pelvis meets her ass. Her hands clutch into fists on the counter, and then they spread out on the laminate counter. She bends further, hoping to give herself some more leverage. She tries to steer clear of Linda’s toiletries littering the countertop, and pats at the counter until her right hand grips the edge of the sink.

Behind her, Barry seems calm, cool, but a look in the mirror shows the strain on his face, the faint red all over his body like a fire simmering just beneath his skin. His hair is a mess, and Iris doesn’t remember even running her hands through the strands, but it’s standing up all over the place. And, somehow, that makes Barry seem sexier, especially as his hips pump into hers, his strokes slow and long.

The pleasure wraps around her. She feels it everywhere. It’s at the top of her head, a tingling in her scalp, and she can almost feel the roots of her hair curling from the heat of him. It’s in her chest, her heart pounding to the cadence of Barry fucking her, a steady _tap-tap-tap-tap_ that curls her nails into her palms. It’s in the arch of her back, in the clap of her ass as he rubs his hands along her spine, pressing into the arch to steady himself before he palms her cheeks, a light slap that has her ass jiggling and her sex clutching at him. It’s in her pussy, in how wet she is as she grips Barry’s dick, fluttering around him as he seems to grow harder and more solid inside of her, pushing against her walls, pressing against the bottom of her stomach where he shouldn’t even be able to reach. 

(This, he does for several long, drawn out minutes. Until Iris is muttering obscenities— _fuck, Barry; god, how do you always feel so fucking good; b-b-barry, fuuuuuuck.)_

It’s in the way he looks at her through the mirror, his now gray eyes boring into her mocha ones, his hands sliding around to the front of her and up her belly, past her breasts. She whimpers at the missed contact, finding that she needs a little bit more, just a little bit more to take her over. With his hands, he brings her up a bit, until her back is just centimeters away from his chest. She spreads her legs wider so that he stays where she needs him, deep and whole inside her.

He fingers her throat, rocking his hips in tune with the rhythmic tapping on her skin. When he curls his long fingers gently around her throat, it makes her back arch deeper, and he slides in further. The sound she makes at the feeling is almost inhuman, high-pitched and keen in the bathroom. His rhythm stumbles for a moment. 

“Iris,” he hisses, but he continues to fuck into her. It’s all so erotic—the sound of her moans and his low grunts and the music from the party; the arousal that drips down her thighs as his balls slap against her every time he jerks into her—that she has to touch herself. She pinches at her nipples, crying out when his fingers clutch a little tighter around her throat. She rocks back onto him, twisting her hips as they connect with his pelvis, her head thrown back to give him as much access to her as she can.

When he moves his other hand from her hip to her clit, Iris thinks she sees literal stars. She murmurs something that even she can’t understand, and brings both of her hands up to dig into Barry’s arm wrapped around her. Her eyes close as he gathers some of her wetness on his fingertips and rubs it over her swollen clit, and just like that, she comes, scratching at his hand on her throat because it’s the only thing that makes sense in the moment, clenching around Barry so hard that she feels him come too, his dick throbbing inside of her, pulsing as he spills into the condom.

_Just let it fall out, out from my face_

_I never thought I'd ever hear me say_

_I just can't breathe without my baby_

_Ooh, come here, baby_

He slides out her, tired, panting. He doesn’t move right away. Her breathing is just as harsh, her hands still gripping the counter. They both look well-sexed, spent and satiated and it’s insane, that they’ve just done this, like this, just now. His hand presses against her chest and he kisses at her face before dropping it to his side.

“Fuck, Barry,” she mumbles, something like a laugh in there too, and she whirls around to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. This kiss is filthy, a reincarnation of what they'd just done, with lips and tongue and teeth, enough that she’s already feeling it again, the sharp flutter of her pussy throbbing. But it’s sweet too, slow and earnest, Barry’s hands cupping her cheeks and his eyes closed as he gives her everything. And shit, it’s so ingratiating, so disarming and _good,_ that it makes her cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Barry pulls away when he feels her wet cheeks

“Iris are you okay?” he asks, his voice panicked. “Did I…” he swallows. “Did I do something?”

 _Yes_ , she wants to tell him. He’s made her go and fall in love with him and it’s too soon and she doesn’t even really know what that means. But she doesn’t say any of that. Because how does she?

“No, of course not,” she says instead.

“That’s not an of course not,” he says, reaching up and wiping at her cheeks. “You’re crying. I’ve never made a girl cry during sex.”

She sniffs. “But you’ve made them cry other times?”

If possible, Barry looks even more shell-shocked. “No, that’s not what I…”

“I’m kidding, Barry,” she interrupts, grabbing his hand. She presses another quick kiss to his mouth. “I’m okay. Better than okay. I promise.”

He grazes the skin of her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Barry.”

He watches her for a long, drawn out minute, but then Barry goes to flush the condom and Iris looks into Linda’s linen closet, grabbing a couple small towels and wetting them both, making a note to take Linda to brunch on Sunday to apologize for defiling her bathroom. She cleans herself up and then pulls Barry towards her to do the same. She can tell that it embarrasses him a little—that fucking blush tells everything—but he says nothing and let’s her do it.

They start to get dressed in silence, pulling on wrinkled clothes and not necessarily caring what they look like.

“Come home with me?” he requests. He buttons his pants, and then pulls her back to him. “I can make you breakfast.”

“Breakfast is hard to say no to, pretty boy,” Iris says, “especially at midnight.”

He presses a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, to her mouth, nipping gently at her lips before he pulls away.

“C’mon,” he urges, and he grabs her hand to pull her along.

_As we dance close_

_Come and kiss up on me slow_

_As we dance close_

**Author's Note:**

> If y'all haven't figured out by now, I love music. This series, which started with Movement and might be 3 or 4 more fics, focuses on some songs that I love and find perfect for various WestAllen sexy scenes I've got in my head.
> 
> For Wicked Game fans, don't worry! I am writing. I should have an update for you all (fingers crossed) by next Sunday!  
> Until then, I hope you enjoy this. Drop a comment or a kudos if you like it.
> 
> -Elle


End file.
